The Addams' Family Chronicles
by ThisLittleDeath
Summary: New adventures of our favorite characters. A movie and TV crossover, the characters resemble a mixture of both. Rated M for some Addams' style romance and torture. Enjoy! A first look into the love life of Fester and Dementia.
1. A Typical Morning

This is just a little story based around the personalities and antics of the Addams.' You may notice that I don't strictly adhere to either the movies or the TV show – I borrow from each all the parts I love the most. (I have to add also that I'm a big fan of the fanfiction of BleedTheScene and LittleObsessions so sometimes I find that their interpretations of the characters bleed into my own feelings about them as well!) Please Review!

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to the Addams' Family**

Part One: A typical morning

Morticia opened her eyes in the languorous manner of a large predatory cat. The sight warmed his heart as much as it triggered that innate flight or fight response when the body sensed danger. But that was his love for her, equal parts the protective devotion of a person to a precious but fragile treasure, the deep-rooted tinglings of the fear one feels when cornered suddenly by a sleek but deadly predator, and that undeniable lust incited by both. As she rolled over and turned those feline eyes on him, her expression of irritation triggered by the sun in her eyes melted into a heartbreaking expression of contentment when they fell upon her one true love, Gomez. Long past were the days for poetic speeches and revelations of deep and undying love. Instead, the lovers gazed upon the one face they'd never tire of and could never exist without.

"Cara mia," Gomez whispered, lightly as a breath.

"Mon cher," Morticia responded, just as quietly.

And they passed the early morning hours, shut in by heavy drapes, staring into each other's eyes in the candlelight, defying the sun to interrupt their bliss.

Down the hall, another Addams passed the morning in a slightly different manner. Pugsley awoke stiffly, noticing first a pain in his neck, followed by the strangest sensation of disorientation, as if he was no longer in his bedroom. As he opened his eyes with a groan, and prepared to roll from his bed of nails (for that was truly the best way to get the full, piercing effect of the bed) inherited from his uncle, he noticed that someone had rearranged his room. All the furniture was pushed around, but, wait, that couldn't be right. There's no way that Wednesday or Pubert could have glued all of his things to the ceiling. Attempting to swing his legs off what he imagined was his bed, Pugsley noted he couldn't move his legs at all, or his arms for that matter. Attempting to crane his neck to find the cause of his paralysis, Pugsley found that Wednesday, or Pubert, or the two of them together for that matter, had replaced his bed with a St. Peter's Cross and had chained him to it in his sleep. Sighing, Pugsley thought, "It's good to be home."

The rest of the Addams family passed the early morning in their typical fashion. Lurch was already hard at work hanging cobwebs from portraits and chandeliers and trying to decide whether he'd poison the plants in the conservatory next or head down and skim the swamp instead. Growling, Lurch reveled in the pleasantries of his job. Mama, who could rarely sleep, had been up most of the night, reading cookbooks and conjuring spirits, or was it cooking up spirits? Her insomnia had the cheerful side effect of hastening senility, a disorder she was enjoying immensely. The rest of the family was happy with the transition as well. Mama's crumbling ability to focus on one task at a time had a fortuitous culinary side effect. Mama's cooking had taken a turn toward more adventurous, creative, unappetizing, and frequently downright poisonous fare, which was boisterously applauded by the family at large.

Uncle Fester, who, after his disastrous romance with Debby had finally found his soul mate in Dementia and had moved out of the Addams mansion into an equally decrepit, swamp-bordered chalet across town, awoke to find himself chained to his own, now king-sized bed of nails, with his beloved Dementia staring down at him from across the room, bullwhip in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other.

"Good morning, my dear," said Fester, smiling despite his vulnerable position.

"A good morning it is," said Dementia with a slightly wicked, but in Fester's estimation, downright gorgeous smile. "I thought you might like a little morning pick-me-up."

"We did have a late night, out moon bathing. The moon was quite strong. You know, I think I got moon burn," said Fester craning to look at the exposed skin on his arms and legs.

"It was a beautiful night, indeed. So I thought I'd give you a choice of a pick-me-up," she gestured with the coffee, "coffee, or…" and then lifted the bull whip, that wicked smile gleaming in her eyes, "a pick-me-up of a different sort."

Fester stared at both items, shifting his head first to the left, to gaze at the coffee, and then to the right. Left, right, left, right, back and forth Fester's head shifted as Dementia's face shifted from an anticipatory smile, to confusion, and finally to annoyance as her sweet, combustible husband continued to amaze her with his serious lack of education in the school of romance. She decided to take matters into her own hands and use this as another opportunity to teach Fester the art of the bullwhip, and of the bedroom. Setting the coffee aside, Dementia said, "Here, let me show you my version of a pick-me-up."

Back at the Addams' mansion, Wednesday and Thing were in the playroom sorting through the family's accumulated weaponry, torture devices, and various "relaxation" apparatuses such as the rack, the iron maiden, and St. Andrew's Cross. Suddenly, Pubert burst into the room, just as Wednesday chucked a thumbscrew over her shoulder, missing his eye by inches. "Wednesday!" Pubert shouted.

Wednesday prided herself on never being scared, let alone startled, but she jumped slightly when Pubert bounded into the room. Turning her head slowly to hide any shock left on her face, Wednesday sneered at her younger brother. His usually perfectly combed and oiled hair was completely tousled and his moustache was askew. The little boy, now 6 years old, looked positively elated. He proceeded, in the typical manner of 6 year olds (that is, speaking very rapidly and without pausing to breathe) and the highly atypical manner for the usually astute Pubert, to tell Wednesday how Pugsley had awoken to find himself in the predicament that he and Wednesday had inflicted upon him, and how he had shaken the chains so loudly and fiercely that Mother and Father had raced into his room, thinking that cousin Creep had left the tunnel and had come in for a visit.

Pubert continued, "Mother and Father were so disappointed that it was not cousin Creep. Father even scolded Pugsley for rousing them so early." Pubert laughed. "Pugsley apologized of course, but explained that he was only trying to summon Lurch, because he couldn't unhook the last lock by himself." Pubert continued, "Father chuckled and said, 'Pugsley, old boy, you're going to have to keep on with your escape tactics, Little Pubert is really coming along with his restraint-tying."

Pubert beamed at the memory and Wednesday had to snicker at how perfectly Pubert mimicked their father's voice. Wanting to hear how or if Pugsley finally managed to escape his chains, and feeling somewhat proud of Pubert, both for his help that morning and for his uncanny ability to hide and overhear conversations all over the house, Wednesday prompted Pubert continue, "Then what?"

Pubert puffed himself to his full height and concluded the story, "Well, Pugsley murmured something like, 'Yes Father,' and then grumbled under his breath that he had managed to get three of the four restraints off by himself thank you very much and upside-down to boot, when Father finally rung for Lurch to get Pugsley down."

Like many 6 year olds' stories, Wednesday had to admit that this story had a slightly disappointing ending. There was no bloodshed, no one died, and no one was even seriously hurt. But still, it was a good morning's work inconveniencing Pugsley and building up Pubert's confidence with chains. Wednesday felt her quota of "good deeds" for the day was more than filled, so she excused herself, grabbed her iPod and her sketch pad and headed out in the graveyard. There, with the sun hidden behind scores of dead and dying trees and the gothic mausoleums of her ancestors, she could listen to music, draw out her next sadistic plan for her brothers or parents, and avoid whatever family bonding her parents had planned for them that day.

Meanwhile, Pugsley was still feeling the sting of his morning wake up call, as both his wrists and ankles throbbed from the bite of the chains and his ego felt slightly wounded from being bested by his little brother. However, he had to admit, the kid had style. Still, Pugsley knew the little brute couldn't have acted alone, and, well, now that he thought about it, it HAD been awhile since he'd acted against his sister. He'd have to be very crafty because he knew that Wednesday was not only always on the defensive and thus prepared for anything, but also that she had a sadistic imagination to rival the Marquis de Sade himself.

Planning and scheming had never really been strong points in Pugsley's arsenal. Sure, he was great with chemicals, could butcher just about anything, tie a mean knot and escape (almost) any restraints put on him, but strategy and craftiness he usually just left up to his sister. A fearless man, Pugsley preferred the direct approach, willing to rely on his brawn and assorted skills to take over where strategy failed. But such an approach would not work with Wednesday. She was very familiar with Pugsley's skills, and weaknesses for that matter.

Pugsley smiled internally. Despite his annoyance with his sister, in general he was very proud of how she'd grown up. He remembered how he'd indulged her over the years, playing her sadistic games, enduring her assorted tortures. He was always proud of each new apparatus she'd come up with, always enjoyed the way her pleasure in inflicting pain lit up her usually stoic face, and, while he'd never admit it, he too found pleasure in pain, the way fear turned into anticipation and how violence made him feel alive and powerful. He sighed with the memories and then frowned as he contemplated the complex task ahead of him.

Across town, Fester and Dementia lay panting and exhausted on their bed. With sleepy eyes, Dementia surveyed the damage. A few cuts and scrapes over her body where the bed of nails had gotten a bit frisky, but otherwise, she felt perfectly whole. Slightly disappointed, she made a mental note to sharpen the bed later that day. Fester and the room as a whole were in much worse shape. Fester's right eye was swollen shut from a bullwhip strike that had gotten away from her. Pity and arousal warred inside of her at the sight of it. Cuts and blossoming bruises decorated his chest, but the contented look on his exhausted and sated face nearly brought her to tears. The headboard suffered from minor damage - some nicks and scratches that brought out the color of the room nicely. A few shattered lamps, pools of cooled black and red candle wax, and an attractive streak of Fester's blood coated the floor. Sighing, she curled back into bed and kissed her husband on the cheek.

"Good morning," she said again.

"Now let's not start that again," said Fester with a smile. "I've had a good enough morning this morning to last me …" He trailed off. "Well, until tomorrow morning at least," he finished laughing.

Dementia couldn't help but laugh along with him. Her first step out of bed landed directly on a rogue piece of glass, "Ouch!" she cried. And as the blood from her foot mingled with the debris on the floor, Dementia groaned. "I guess we'll have to clean up this lovely mess after all. I don't want to go around with bleeding feet all the time."

Fester, looking disappointed, said, "I guess you're right, although it's a damn shame. Your feet are so becoming that way." And the lovers smiled with the ardor of new love as Dementia pulled on a noose suspended from the ceiling (a gift from Morticia for their wedding) to summon their new housekeeper, Totter (a gift from Gomez. Apparently he tracked her down using the same service from which they hired Lurch).

Fester headed for the door. "I'll leave you to arrange things with Totter. I'll meet you downstairs for some breakfast and then perhaps I can show you the new explosive package I've rigged up. I know you'll get a bang out of it!" Dementia nodded and chuckled indulgently as Fester scampered down the stairs.

When Totter, small and pixie-like, skipped into the room, her face immediately shifted from serene and detached to awed and amazed.

"Ms. Dementia," she chirped in her high melodious voice, "I LOVE what you've done with this room!" Then, remembering herself, she added in a slightly more professional tone, "What can I do for you this morning, ma'am?"

Dementia smiled, appreciating both the girl's taste and her energy, but answered gravely, "Unfortunately, I cannot keep the room as it is. Although the cuts on my feet are becoming, I fear they may be hard on my shoes. I would prefer, however, if you could clean the glass up without taking away from the spirit of the mess. It's so ghastly. I wouldn't want to ruin that."

"Absolutely, ma'am. I'm right on it!" Totter exclaimed. Pleased with her housekeeper and with the absolute bliss of her life, Dementia hurried down the stairs, eager to see what culinary experiment her husband had concocted for lunch.

Across town, Morticia gazed across the table at the melancholic face and downcast eyes of her husband. "Gomez," she scolded, "You have barely touched your brisket of warthog or your sweet-and-sour stinkbug stew! What will Mama think?"

"Ah yes, dear, of course, you're right," he answered half-heartedly. He lifted a spoonful of stew, but plopped it down before bringing it to his lips.

"It's just that, well, I was so sure I heard Old Creepy that, upon discovering that it wasn't him after all, well, I'm just feeling a bit disappointed," Gomez explained. He looked up into the skeptical eyes of his overly insightful wife. Sighing heavily, Gomez admitted the heart of the matter. "The truth is, with Fester moving out and the children spending most of the year away at school, I miss having family around. We hardly ever have guests by, and it's been ages since we've thrown a party. Creepy spends all his time in that tunnel, Aunt Drip and Uncle Droop have been missing for over 3 years, Lumpy's practically a man now, and the Amore twins haven't been released from the Mental Institution in months now. I'm feeling, what is it they call it? 'empty nest'?" Chagrin flushed his cheeks as Gomez realized that he sounded more like an aging soccer mom than a hot-blooded Castilian man. Thankfully, when he looked up at Morticia, her face wore only understanding and sympathy.

"I understand darling. I often get those same delicious pangs of nostalgia for the old days. Our little monsters are almost grown now. It's been years since Pugsley has needed me to check his gunpowder mix before blowing up the attic." Morticia grinned with the memory before her face crumpled into concern.

"And Wednesday almost never poisons our food or puts bear traps in our bed anymore. She's outgrown such childish games," Gomez added with a look of despair bordering on panic. "And Pubert just yesterday asked me to refrain from shackling him to the bed as per usual. He even asked when he could get his big boy nail bed like the one Pugsley has." The panic was very clear on Gomez's face and with a rapid moment he was suddenly kneeling at his wife's side and grasping her hand with an intensity that both frightened her and aroused her. "Cara mia," he cried, "What shall we do?"

Caressing his cheek with her long, red, pointed nails, Morticia crooned, "Calm yourself, darling Gomez. Truly time does not move as fast as it seems. We still have many years with Pubert in the house, and Pugsley and Wednesday too, despite their months away at school. We will have the joy of their company and antics while they are here, and the piercing agony when they are away."

Her voice curled around the word 'agony, ' caressing it as she had his cheek. He couldn't help the tightening in his belly that occurred when she said that word in just that way. Suddenly the thought of an emptier house wasn't so bad. Looking up at her, understanding her meaning perfectly, he replied, "Either way, what bliss."


	2. Revenge: Best Served with Balloons

Part two: Revenge is a dish best served with balloons

Pugsley rubbed his chafed wrists as he sat down at his computer. He aimlessly checked his emails and his various online amusements such as a discussion board he started on a particularly gruesome website on the effects a sulfuric acid cocktail on the human body. No one seemed to have anything intelligent to add to his descriptions so he checked the shipping status of his latest order, a small nuclear reactor from a seller out of Bangladesh. Cheered that his package should arrive any day, Pugsley closed his browser.

Of course, as he did so, he noticed the bright pink blinking ad hidden behind the browser. As he moved to shut it too, the heading of the advertisement caught his eye. In obnoxious blinking letters, the ad read, "Lonely? Life Full of Woe? Sad and Unloved? We Can Help!" The grin on Pugsley's face spread slowly as a plan started to form itself in his mind. He got up from his desk, and, pacing the room, stopped to stare out the window at his little sister who was at that moment curled up beneath the outstretched arms of the statue over Aunt Laborgia's tomb, iPod on and furiously sketching out something in her notebook. He imagined it was probably some elaborate scheme to bring his parents or Pubert down. Wednesday never liked to leave any member of the family unscathed. And she wouldn't want Pubert to get too comfortable with having her as an ally. If there was any twinge of guilt for the plan he had in store for her, when he saw her hard at work it evaporated. As he set the pieces in motion, he laughed, "It's time I showed you how it's done little sister."

Pubert raced into the living room, foils in hand, in search of his father. It was nearly a daily routine, fencing after lunch. He found his father, in his traditional reading pose (that is, standing on his head), looking over an old photo album, cigar between his teeth, and intermittently turning pages with one hand. In Pubert's haste, he at first missed the tears in his father's eyes, but once he was up close, Pubert's curiosity overwhelmed his innate sense of tack and he blurted, "Father, are you _crying_?"

Across the room, Morticia's head came up from her knitting and she chided her son, "Pubert, give your father some space. He is reminiscing." Despite her words to her son, Morticia gave Gomez a look that said, "Stop wallowing in what is past, and be a father for your son now!" As if he heard every word, Gomez snapped out of his self-pity and, vaulting to his feet, swiped one of the foils from Pubert's hand in the same motion and was shouting "En garde" even before Pubert noticed the move. Pubert immediately burst into delighted laughter, laughter he quickly stifled and replaced with his version of a fierce, if not slightly arrogant, fencing face, signaling his father that he was prepared to fight.

Morticia smiled as her boys vaulted over furniture, overturning lamps and smashing the bric-a-brac, stepping on Bruno and causing him to growl furiously, and nearly taking off Mama's head as she rushed down the hallway. "Ah," she thought, "the sounds of a joyful family."

Just as the noises of the raging battle started to dim, the doorbell rang. Slightly confused as to who might be calling on a Saturday afternoon, Morticia rose to accompany Lurch to the doorway. She became even more confused when Pugsley raced down the stairs grinning widely, and cut her off with assurances that he'd see to the mystery visitor. Before he reached the door, she stopped him with a question; "Pugsley, dear, have you seen your sister today? I haven't seen her all morning."

If possible, Pugsley's grin became even more pronounced as he asserted, "Oh she's not really feeling well today. I think she is resting in her room." Morticia nodded, and as she turned, she mumbled, "Ah the benefits of youth."

In her room, Wednesday contemplated her current predicament. She internally cursed herself for falling for Pugsley's seemingly innocent offer of a cup of henbane tea. She'd checked for all the usual poisons but in her haste to get back to her scheming she'd neglected to check for paralytics. So here she was, lying supine on her bed, unable to move or speak, let alone rip Pugsley to shreds with her bare hands, as she wanted. Knowing Pugsley, she imagined that this was likely the end of her torture for the day. With that in mind, she rifled through her memory trying to remember typical time frames for the body to process and breakdown paralytics in the bloodstream. Before she could recall, however, she heard Pugsley outside of her doorway. He spoke in whispers, likely to Pubert or her parents, telling them to stay away so they wouldn't know what he'd done. Or else bragging about it.

In the hall outside of Wednesday's room, Pugsley had prepped the visitor with the details of Wednesday's "condition," and the kind of comfort, support, and uplifting entertainment that just might lift her from this "paralyzing depression" into which she had sunk. Pugsley explained, "We just don't know what else to do for her. We've had shrinks in, and a minister stopped by the other day. But she simply won't move, or talk, or anything." Pugsley's guest nodded solemnly, took a deep breath and boldly walked into Wednesday's bedroom.

What walked into Wednesday's bedroom can only be classified as a demon sent straight from Wednesday's personal hell. At 5'3'', Charity Vanderbilt had never scared any person in her life, until now. Just the sight of her sent chills down Wednesday's paralyzed spine. With bouncing blonde curls tied up in a pink bow, gleaming white teeth, and the heart-shaped face of a porcelain doll, Charity's appearance was only topped by the things she carried with her into Wednesday's room. One fist was wrapped tightly around the strings of several large, brightly colored balloons, many with smiley faces or kittens on the surface. The other held what was either a giant, white dust mop head or the furriest cat ever. It too had a giant pink bow around its neck. As if to make matters worse, over her shoulder she had slung a large bag, filled with, Wednesday was sure, numerous more torture devices, all in bright colors with baby animals painted all over them.

If Wednesday could have made noise, she would have screamed. As it was, she shuddered a tiny bit and large quantities of air came rushing in and out of her lungs, making a hissing sound reminiscent of the rattle of a rattlesnake. Pugsley had to stifle a laugh as he heard her panic and saw how her eyes were bugging out of her head. At the sound of Pugsley's choked laugh, Wednesday was immediately reminded of the importance of remaining calm, of keeping the balance of power tipped in her favor. She must not let Pugsley gain too much satisfaction from his little victory. Besides, she had endured all manner of bubbly, air-head types in her life and had handled them all. Granted, she was never incapacitated at the time, but still, this would be simply a new challenge. Without moving or talking, she would find a way to break this blonde bimbo. Somehow.

Charity worked extremely hard to conceal her horror upon entering the room. Draped in all shades of black and grey, the bedroom looked like a torture chamber or Dracula's guest room. "Well duh!" she thought, "no wonder this girl is so depressed. Her room looks like a funeral reception!" One look at Wednesday had her convinced that the girl was in need of serious help. She saw a girl figuratively (or so she thought) chained to the bed by sadness, so far gone that merely the addition of a new person into the room threw her into hyperventilation. "Yes," she thought, "I can help this girl. She just needs a little love, a little color, and a little fun!"

Speaking slowly and clearly, Charity said, "Hi Wednesday, I'm Charity Vanderbilt, and I'm just here to sit with you awhile, maybe chat, play a game or two, and have a little fun. Is that OK with you?"

Wednesday tried with all her might to move some part of her body, or to use her voice, even just a squeak. But Pugsley's paralytics were holding and she was forced to watch as Charity looked to Pugsley for help. He feigned a smile of concern and said, "See what I mean, she won't talk. She is in desperate need of help and some company." He moved to crouch down at Wednesday's head, positioning himself so his back was to Charity. "Isn't that right, little sister? Now you be good and talk to the nice lady. She'll make you feel better. And I'll be in to check on you in a few hours." His smile grew more pronounced throughout the little speech. He dropped his voice so it was barely a whisper, "And don't worry about the paralysis. I used so much you'll likely be able to play with your new friend for days." A quick wink and an ironic kiss on her forehead ended the charade, and Pugsley took one last look at Wednesday's panicked expression before he left the room. She was able to hear the sound of one, poorly stifled laugh before Pugsley closed the door to his room. "I'll get you for this," she thought, "Just you wait."

Even though she knew Pugsley was lying about the duration of her paralysis, she was still tormented by the idea of spending the rest of the day incapacitated with this bimbo. It wasn't long before Charity gave up on getting Wednesday to talk about her feelings. But it took a few hours before she stopped telling Wednesday inane anecdotes from her own life, all terminating with the ways that she escaped the "dark clouds" of depression, or the "saddies," as she called it. On several occasions, Wednesday had to wrestle back her urge to vomit, imagining that the likelihood that she'd actually die from choking on her own vomit was less likely than simply getting it all over herself and then having to endure the rest of the day covered in mess. After Charity had run of out stories from her own life, she decided that what Wednesday REALLY needed was a brighter, happier atmosphere in her room.

"All these drab colors, Wednesday, they are _so_ bringing you down. What you really need is some bright colors. Hm, let's see, what colors would suit you best? Oh, I know! PI-NK! (She said this as a sing-song, in two-syllables). Wednesday felt a new and excruciating wave of horror as Charity began taking down Wednesday's black drapes and her posters of her favorite bands, and replacing them with pink polka dotted lace curtains and posters of kittens hanging from tree branches with the caption "Hang in there, baby," or puppies piled on top of each other below the caption, "You can lean on me." But Wednesday truly thought she'd burst from her unmoving body when Charity made a move toward her favorite piece, a print of Salomé's _Blood Bath_ from 1979, which had hung over her bed since her 16th birthday. "And _this_ hideous thing," Charity whined, "_this_ has GOT to go!"

Luckily for Wednesday, and unluckily for Charity, the sustained panic had caused Wednesday's heart to beat much faster than usual, causing the paralytics in her bloodstream to metabolize much faster than even Pugsley had imagined. Because of this, at just the moment when Charity reached for Wednesday's prized portrait, Wednesday finally gained some control over body and was able to shriek right in Charity's face as it hovered over her own. The look of fury combined with what Charity could only describe as the sound of the demons of hell scared Charity so badly that she ran screaming from the room, and straight out of the house.

As her fury slowly subsided, Wednesday was able to note that she had not, in fact, been able to scare Charity without moving or speaking, but that, at least, she'd managed it sooner than she'd hoped. Exhausted from the panic and fury, Wednesday decided she'd kill her brother in the morning. However, as soon as she could move her feet, she got up and locked her door. Just in case he got cocky and tried for two in one day.

Feeling incredibly proud of himself, Pugsley decided to check in on his sister before retiring to bed. He hoped he'd given her enough paralytics to keep her immobile throughout the night. He knew she'd retaliate, and he'd rather it not be when he was asleep (again). However, Pugsley knew he was in for it when he saw that her door was closed and locked. "Great," he thought, "apparently I'm staying awake tonight." It was no wonder he'd recently started to develop those dark circles around his eyes, Pugsley thought to himself. What with being chained to crosses and having to stay awake the whole night to make sure he'd actually be alive to wake up the next morning, Pugsley wondered if he'd ever get enough sleep to lessen the swelling. Then again, the circles were sort of becoming. Well, if he was going to be up all night, he figured he might as well pass the time playing with his new chemistry set. He'd really gotten behind on his bomb-making and figured it was about time to practice. Speaking of practice, maybe he should practice undoing knots and chains while he was at it. Planning out his night, Pugsley lumbered up the stairs to his room.

Meanwhile, Morticia and Gomez were preparing to retire to bed as well. Gomez was in a substantially better mood after his sword fight with Pubert, and his high spirits had carried him throughout the day. He was especially cheered when Pubert, to the supreme pleasure of his father, asked if he could be chained into bed in the usual way. So it was with a light heart and soaring sense of satisfaction that Gomez mounted the stairs to his bedroom arm in arm with the most beautiful woman in the world. Never the one to hold back his feelings, Gomez told Morticia just that. "What a beautiful day, my love. And to think, after such a beautiful day, spending my nights with you puts that beauty to shame. I am the luckiest of men."

Morticia smiled, long used to the extravagant flattery of her darling husband. "Indeed you are, mon cher," she teased, "but I wonder, how will your luck hold tonight?" A flirtatious smile bent her lips and her long eyes sparkled with fun and ferocity. Gomez felt as though his blood had come to a boil and that, instead of blood, fire now raced through his veins. It took all his might to control his feral urges enough so that when he took her into his arms, his hands were gentle. The fire was contained in his eyes and his lips as he fiercely pressed his mouth to hers.

Morticia prided herself on restraint and self-control, but the feral intensity of her husband frequently made her weak in the knees as well as in her will. A low moan escaped her control as Gomez's feverish fury consumed them, but she found the strength to utter, if only in broken sentences, that, "perhaps – darling – we should – retire –" and move their passionate exchange from the top of the stairs, the final several feet to their bedroom. "Capital idea," Gomez slurred, in that passion-filled sluggish voice of a man engrossed. Too impatient for civilized walking, Gomez lifted Morticia off her feet and carried her, as he had done on their wedding night and many, many nights since, into their bedroom. Startled by his sudden movement, Morticia gasped before smiling at her husband's impatience and charm. "Some things never change," she chuckled.

Gomez turned to gaze meaningfully at his wife, feeling touched by her continued attempt to cheer up his earlier melancholy. But then, feeling playful and devilish, replied, "And some things do, Querida. I got an idea when I was chaining in Pubert tonight. I think it might be a fun thing to try, you know, in the spirit of change," he added with mock innocence. Slightly nervous, highly aroused, and utterly charmed by her husband's proposal for the evening, Morticia decided to play along. "In the spirit of change," she agreed, and smiled her coy smile, inciting Gomez to pick up right where he left off.


	3. Insomnia

Part three: Insomnia

Wednesday woke the to sound of rain pounding on her window and the reassuring scraping of the old dead oak in the front yard against her bedroom window. The sun was cloaked behind dark clouds, so it was only when she checked her alarm clock that she knew it was 8am in the morning. Feeling thoroughly rested after her traumatic incident the day before, Wednesday stretched and climbed out of bed. "It's amazing," she thought, "what a good night's sleep can do for a body." She almost smiled with the sheer lightness, before remembering herself and the fact that she was deeply opposed to any kind of smiling - save for the occasional maniacal grin, ironic smirk, or a sarcastic sneer. The lightness of her restful sleep faded quickly, however, as she remembered the torture Pugsley inflicted on her and the burning need for retribution. Minutes passed as she sat on the edge of her bed pondering the best way to get back at Pugsley, and, for the first time in her life, Wednesday had no plan. Her mind was a complete blank. Thoroughly irritated, she threw on a comfortable old black hoodie and went downstairs for some breakfast, hoping that a little nourishment might kick start her vengeful imagination.

Down the hall, Pugsley was feeling the effects of his all-nighter. In defense against a possible attack by his sister overnight, Pugsley had kept himself awake with a cocktail of Red Bull and espresso, not to mention the amusement of his chemistry set, assorted books on autopsy procedures, and his lengths of various thicknesses of chain, rope, and wire – to practice escaping from whatever binding his siblings might put him in next. All in all, it had been a pleasant night. But now that morning had broken, he was feeling the effects of too much caffeine, too little sleep, and a gnawing fear that whatever Wednesday cooked up next might actually be the death of him. Pugsley knew he had REALLY gotten to his sister. He was incredibly proud of sheer trauma he had inflicted her and the brilliance of his plan. It was definitely the best torture either of them had come up, ever. However, being such, Pugsley was sure Wednesday would not let it stand. Her retribution would be swift and likely immensely painful. As much as Pugsley felt excited by that prospect, he was also scared stiff. So when he left his room to go down for breakfast, he moved stealthily and warily.

At the breakfast table, Morticia, Gomez, and Pubert were already enjoying Mama's newest creation, Elderberry and Mayapple Cobbler with Yak's milk ice cream on top. Pubert was amusing himself by trying to toss spoonfuls of the ice cream into Cleopatra's mouth (for lack of a better word) from across the room. Cleopatra would dive for each glob, frequently missing and wrapping herself around Lurch's arm or neck as he poisoned the other plants in the conservatory. Pugsley walked in the room just in time to take a particularly large glob right in the face.

"Ugh!" Pugsley exclaimed, jumping about 20 feet before realizing it was only ice cream and not some deadly poison thrown at him by Wednesday. Wiping the cream from his face, he said, "Hey, what's this for?"

Pubert was already bounding out of his chair to offer a napkin to Pugsley. "So sorry, old chap," said Pubert in the manner of his father, "You just so happened to cut of Cleopatra. That glob was for her."

"Oh," said Pugsley, "Sorry Cleopatra." Still looking rather dazed from his near heart attack and his sleepless night, Pugsley moved to sit down at the table. Lifting his head from his stupor, Pugsley noticed that both his parents were staring rather intently at him. "Mother? Father? Is something wrong?"

"Well, to be honest, Pugsley, old man," said Gomez hesitantly, "I have to say you're looking rather ghoulish this morning."

"I am?" Pugsley asked, "Well, I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Well, dear," Morticia added, "I have to say the look really becomes you, but it seems to have dulled your reflexes a bit. You've never missed a projectile blob from your brother before. Perhaps you'd better find a different way to attain this level of beauty and charm."

"Yes, Mother," Pugsley agreed. "I think I will try and get a bit more sleep."

"Good idea, darling. We'll wake you for lunch," said Morticia, slightly concerned.

Instead of heading to his room, Pugsley headed outside to Uncle Fester's old tree house. It was easily defensible and surrounded by a minefield Uncle Fester put in to discourage robins from hanging around. From there he could set a few traps and most likely a few hours of sleep without worrying about Wednesday.

Back in the breakfast room, Wednesday was grumbling about her empty head as her parents were whispering about their concerns about poor Pugsley's health.

"I just don't know Morticia," Gomez argued, "it's just not natural for a boy that age to be missing projectile blobs. And he saw it coming from across the room."

"Gomez, dear, calm down. It's never happened before. And you saw how tired Pugsley looked. With a little sleep he'll be as rotten as new," Morticia countered.

"Perhaps you are right, querida. We will wait and see," Gomez conceded.

By this point Wednesday had settled herself into her usual seat. With feigned indifference she asked, "Something wrong with Pugsley?"

Her parents glanced at each other slyly before Morticia answered, "The poor dear seems to have gotten little sleep last night. How did you sleep, darling?"

Never moving her eyes from her cobbler, for fear of revealing the maniacal glint in her eyes from the plan forming itself in her mind, Wednesday answered in monotone, "Like the dead."

Another Addams was suffering from insomnia, but for a very different reason. Thing found himself unable to rest and utterly lifeless as he waited for correspondence from his beloved Lady Fingers. It'd been years now that she had been abroad with Cousin Millie (that is, Princess Millicent von Schlepp) and the only contact he'd had with her was through handwriting. But Lady Fingers' letter had never been delayed this long. Her response should have come a week ago. Thing imagined the worse-case scenarios he could think of – his lady love must have been hand-napped or perhaps she got trapped in the glove compartment of a stranger's vehicle or was somehow caught in a cookie jar. Thing's imagination ran wild with the possible misfortunes that could have kept his Lady Fingers from writing to him. And so he spent the nights pacing the floors, or starting new letters to send to Lady Fingers, or browsing the Internet to try and find a way to contact her. All to no avail. For several nights now, Thing continued to wait for Lady Fingers, and he did not sleep.

Across town, it seemed the insomnia of another Addams was cured. It seemed that marriage suited Fester nicely. Instead tossing and turning in his sleep every night, as he had for years, Fester now found himself sleeping soundly. It may be due the fact that his wife found many new and creative ways to tire him out before bed, or, at least in part, due to the fact that Dementia typically hit him over the head with a club after their goodnight kiss. Either way, the black circles around Fester's eyes had faded substantially (and the black and blue lumps on his head continued to darken). This new pattern was just one of the many blessings of his new, married life, and he was pretty sure he'd never tire of it.


	4. Masochists

**Ok - So I know I said, Part Four would be "Psychological Warfare" but this chapter just insisted on coming first. So stay tuned for Part Five (Psychological Warfare!) Please Review! **

Part four: Masochists

Wednesday pondered the problem at hand.

How do you punish a masochist? For truly, Pugsley had always had masochistic tendencies. Even before the birth of his sister, baby Pugsley had managed to fall out of his cradle numerous times, inflicting hideous amounts of pain, as he often landed on his baby toys scattered around the feet of his cradle. He'd scream and then laugh – a spectacle that warmed his parents' hearts, for the first dozen times or so. Of course, Morticia and Gomez delighted in the devilry of their children, but if there was one thing they weren't likely to tolerate for too long, it was interruptions to their private devilry. So, it wasn't long before baby Pugsley was strapped into bed at night, and left to delight himself with bodily punishment during daylight hours. In that sense, at least, it was fortunate that Pugsley was soon gifted with Wednesday as a playmate.

Their childhood together had been spent with a number of amusing games, various tortures devised by Wednesday and inflicted upon Pugsley, that, to the untrained eye would appear as the cruel actions of siblings at odds, but were in actuality joint expressions of love and friendship.

Because of this, Wednesday struggled to come up with a plan that would actually punish her brother for his latest torture. Despite her annoyance with Pugsley and her sheer hatred around having been bested by anyone, she had to admit she was sickly proud of her brother – it had been a stroke of genius calling up that snotty, preppy girl and incapacitating Wednesday with paralytics.

She wished she'd thought of it first.

Shaking her head against the distracting thoughts of pride and jealousy, Wednesday returned to her plotting. At this very moment, she knew that Pugsley was hiding out in Uncle Fester's old tree house for fear of her vengeance – likely catching a few hours of sleep to make up for his sleepless night spent guarding against an attack. Wednesday chuckled to herself. It was the first time she could ever remember her big brother being frightened.

He hadn't been remotely frightened the first time she tied him beneath the razor sharp ax head she'd attached to a swinging pendulum. He'd even laughed when the blade cut through his hoodie and exposed his traditional black and white striped shirt. He smiled when she first strapped him into the electric chair she'd constructed. And the one time (she was only three) she was able to trick him into an empty grave (under the pretense that her doll's head had fallen in) only to collapse the hole with a dynamite blast, she could hear him humming as he dug himself out with the spoon she'd hidden in his jacket pocket.

But now she needed something to scare Pugsley, really frighten him, and tip the balance back in her favor.

Actually her parents had already provided her with the perfect way to get back at Pugsley. She cackled a short burst before mentally scolding herself, and, returning to her usual stoic facial expression, she began to prepare her torture for her dearly beloved brother.

Meanwhile, Pugsley lay sprawled out in Uncle Fester's tree house, half asleep and half vigilantly scanning the yard with his one open eye for any signs of Wednesday. He suddenly realized with mortification that he was frightened of his baby sister. He was slightly mollified by the next thought, however, that most people's baby sister would probably think twice before setting them on fire or feeding them to piranhas or adding arsenic to their morning breakfast cereal, whereas his made a point to do each of those on a daily basis. Either way, he realized that, while cowardice was a valued family trait, he was not content to rearrange his entire life just to avoid Wednesday. He'd never had to conform to anyone else's will before and certainly wasn't going to start now. So, with a groan that was both a sound of rebellion against and resignation to whatever awaited him back in the house, Pugsley left his sanctuary and headed home.

Meanwhile, another Addams was groaning in rebellion. Pugsley was not the only masochist in the Addams clan. In fact, it was a trait he had inherited from his father. Needless to say, Gomez's pleasure in pain was perfectly mirrored by Morticia's pleasure in inflicting it. At this very moment, the lovers found themselves enmeshed in one of their favorite pastimes, throwing darts (that is, knives). Both keen dart players, Morticia and Gomez found the sport much more thrilling when one of them stood chained to the target. This morning it was Gomez's turn as target, and Morticia was playing coy with her husband, landing knives precariously close to particularly sensitive areas. It was when she expertly threw one that sliced through his shirt, scraping his bicep with a thin scratch that Gomez, in fear, relief, arousal, and rebellion, groaned and strained against his bonds.

"Oops," Morticia sighed, with a cocky smile and a wicked glint in her eyes.

"Oops indeed, my love," said Gomez, through gritted teeth as he tried to regain his composure. "I fear we'll have to work on your aim some more," he added with a smile in his voice.

"Au contraire, mon amour," Morticia contradicted, grinning openly now as she watched her French words affect her husband as he writhed with new vigor against his bonds, "my aim is perfect."

With that, she hurled another knife, this time thinly slicing through her husband's pant leg, slicing into Gomez' outer thigh. He howled as the knife hit home and struggled to contain his convulsions of pain and pleasure for fear that the knife would cut deeper into his flesh. Between the bonds and his own attempts to control his body, Gomez felt as though he would split through his skin, and that the pleasure and pain, fear and arousal that warred within him would tear him asunder. Taking a deep breath, Gomez slowly raised his eyes to his wife as the convulsions slowed. And with a gaze that would set the world on fire, he said, "Indeed, how could it be anything but perfect, coming from you. I've another game in mind, querida, if you are quite through with darts."

Locked in his gaze, and feeling as though her entire body was aflame, Morticia could only nod. She approached him slowly, wanting to make sure her walk would be steady and not reveal her weakness. As she reached over to unlatch his arm, she noticed the light glistening off Gomez's exposed chest, how his collarbone stood out against the defined muscles, and how the line of his neck… Her breath caught in her throat. She brought her eyes back to her husband's. The fire in them now smoldered and a low moan caught in the back of her throat. Before she knew it, Gomez was free of his bonds and she was trapped in his ferocious embrace. Hands and lips and teeth were rough, but when he laid her on the cold stone ground, he did so with extreme care. As their clothing rapidly came off, a tiny part of Morticia's mind registered the fact that she was pleased they'd thought to lock the playroom doors before the dart game, because they simply couldn't be bother to do so now. Her nails dug into his back as they battled and his teeth grazed her neck and shoulder as he tried to keep from shouting out. But as they reached the edge, Gomez whispered, "Look at me, cara," and they toppled over the edge together, locked in each other's eyes.

The end of this particular game came with a crashing wave of ecstasy, several bloody scratches on Gomez's back, and a rather deep imprint of Gomez's teeth on Morticia's shoulder. But, as the lovers laid on the cold playroom floor, wrapped in each other's arms, Gomez tenderly kissed his wife's hair, and murmured against her cheek, "Perfect, absolutely perfect."


	5. Psychological Warfare

Part Five: Psychological Warfare (Distressing Messages)

Pugsley sauntered back to the house, grumbling. Distracted by fatigue, fear and annoyance, Pugsley didn't see Lurch's lumbering form until he had barreled straight into him. Lurch growled in annoyance before looking down to see that it was Pugsley who had slammed into him. Raising his eyebrows at the boy, Lurch wondered what could possibly be so wrong with Pugsley that he hadn't noticed Lurch cracking the low hanging gutters (so as to increase the number of "lovely drips" that beat down on the Addams' visitors as they waited on the porch).

"Sorry Lurch," Pugsley mumbled without looking up as he continued trudging into the house. Lurch expressed his worry with a throaty growl and a shake of the head before returning to work.

Meanwhile, inside, Pubert had it in mind to challenge Thing to a duel. Foils in hand, Pubert knocked soundly on Thing's box. With a voice of challenge, Pubert called, "Come out Thing! Your demise is at hand! Today, we fight!" Pubert waited, grinning, for Thing to pop out of his box in the age old way and jump into the fray. But nothing happened. The box remained shut. Thing did not appear. Opening the box lid slowly, for fear of rudely interrupting Thing's privacy, Pubert called into the bottomless depths, "Thing?" The echo reverberated around the house, but Thing still did not appear. Disheartened and concerned, Pubert left to find his parents and relay the distressing news.

Across town, another honorary member of the Addams' clan was receiving distressing news. Totter sat perched in her usual spot on the roof overlooking the swamp, letter in hand, and her high-pitched wails filling the late-afternoon air. Startled by a sudden movement to her left, Totter jerked and nearly slid from her perch into the muck below. Thankfully, with inhuman speed, Dementia reached out and grabbed the tiny housekeeper, keeping her in her seat.

Catching her breath, Totter turned to look at her rescuer and found herself caught in the concerned gaze of her mistress. "Totter, dear, are you ok? All that wailing, I thought you were Fester. You know how he enjoys howling at the moon. I came up here to scold him for his impatience – the moon won't be up for hours – but I see now it's you, dear." Dementia's face relaxed into one of matronly concern. "Are you alright?"

Sniffling against tears and the last remains of shock from nearly falling off the roof, Totter numbly handed the letter in her hands over to Dementia. Between hitching sobs she was able to relate that, "Teeter – my sister – she – fell – she – they – don't know – if she – " before losing all composure and dissolving into a flood of tears and uncontrollable wailing.

Frightened for the child's well-being and wanting to get to the bottom of the issue, Dementia gathered Totter in her arms and the two of them descended into the house. Once she was wrapped in some blankets and had a steaming cup of henbane tea her hands, Totter began to quiet and Dementia read the letter in full.

She gathered from the letter that Teeter, Totter's twin sister, had been in some sort of accident while trying to unicycle across a tightrope suspended over the Grand Canyon. Dementia smiled at the vigor of youth and then sighed. It's always so sad when the young ones get injured enjoying the simple pleasures of play. As she reached the end of the letter, she found that the accident had not been fatal and that, while the doctors were skeptical, there was a chance that Teeter could be perfectly whole again.

Looking up at Totter's shivering form and tear-stained face, Dementia said, "Well, it's settled then."

Confusion was slow to twist the girl's face, but once it did, she asked, "W-W-What's settled?"

"Teeter will come stay with us for the duration of her healing process. Between the two of us, not to mention Fester's brilliance with chemicals, and Morticia has been telling me about Mama's newly-found creative brilliance, you know, since senility has set in, I know there's no better place for a speedy convalescence."

Incredulous, Totter was torn between a crashing wave of relief and gratitude and unspeakable awe for the generosity of her mistress. She smiled weakly, and tried to protest, "That's very kind of you Ms. Dementia, but you –"

"No, need, dear. We need you here, and your sister needs you. Truly, it's the only logical solution. Now don't worry, it's all settled. I'll go inform Fester about our new houseguest and you go call your sister at the hospital and arrange for her to come here."

Smiling openly now, Totter replied, "Yes, ma'am." And with renewed energy, she skipped off to make the plans.

Back at the Addams' mansion, Pugsley would have killed for some renewed energy. Instead all he got were strange looks from his parents and Lurch, a half-hearted strangle from Cleopatra, and suspiciously normal conversation from Wednesday. He wasn't such a fool to fall for her "we're back to normal" façade. In fact, he was sure she was only doing it to throw him off more. Unfortunately, he was getting to be too tired to care. Excusing himself and not particularly caring if Wednesday would use the opportunity to surgically remove all of his toes (or something), Pugsley went to bed.

He didn't know how much time had elapsed since he'd lain down to sleep, but when a creaking sound reached his ears, his eyes opened to a darkened room. Scanning the room quickly, he found that he was alone in the room, but, oddly enough, the door he'd locked that afternoon now stood ajar. It was the swinging of the creaking hinge that had wakened him. Scanning the room again, panic beginning to creep its way up his throat, Pugsley narrowed his eyes, straining to see even into the darkest corners of the room. Still, he found nothing. He ran his hands over his head, face, arms and shoulders, across his chest and belly, and all the way down his legs to his toes, just to check to make sure he was intact. Everything felt normal. He slowly climbed from his bed and moved to light the skull candle he kept always by his bed. Unsatisfied by the light of the candle, Pugsley turned on every light in his room and swept through – under the bed, in drawers, in the closet, behind the drapes – just to make sure that it was how he'd left it and that there was no one else in the room. Finishing that, and noticing that the breath that had been caught in his chest for the past several minutes was now starting to release, Pugsley relocked his door and prepared to go back to bed.

The stillness of his bedroom, that had felt so comfortable days before, now felt oppressive. He heard every sound of the old creaky house and of the lightning storm that had begun outside, but instead of taking comfort in the sounds of home, he imagined that each new creak was the sound of Wednesday entering his room and taking her revenge. And so he lay, eyes wide open, covered to the chin in blankets, staring up at the ceiling when his eyes weren't darting around the room.

He nearly shouted and jumped out of his skin when a lightning strike outside his window illuminated a corner of his room, revealing what looked like a dangling dark braid. He immediately grabbed for his flashlight and shone the beam over the spot. The braid in question appeared to be only the braided rope of the hanging noose used for summoning Lurch. Pugsley heaved a sigh of relief, but he couldn't entirely dismiss the feeling that the noose didn't completely look like the braid he had seen and perhaps two braids had hung in his room only moments ago.

Feeling overwhelmingly annoyed – at himself and his fears, at his damned sister, at the lightning storm, and at his inability to get even one damned night's sleep, Pugsley flipped off the flashlight, buried himself under his blankets and went to sleep.

The next morning, Pugsley awoke to what was possibly mid-day sun beating through his window. Although he'd gotten several hours of sleep, he didn't awake feeling refreshed. In fact, he had that sickening feeling that came from either drinking too much or sleeping too long after sleeping too little. Groaning against the sun in his eyes and temporarily forgetting that he should be on alert against attack, Pugsley tried to snuggle deeper into his covers. It wasn't long however, that Pugsley began to come to his senses, and when he did, he shot up in bed and began, however bleary-eyed, to scan the room. After the immediate recognition that he was indeed alone, Pugsley's slowing breathing was stopped altogether by a discovery that sent shivers down his spine. Left on his dressing table, in plain sight, was one of the scalpels that Wednesday kept always at hand. Sitting benignly on the table, the scalpel sent a message that was anything but benign. Pugsley stared at it, letting the full message sink in.

First of all, it was a warning. That much was obvious. It could be explicit – meaning that her revenge will be executed with a scalpel, or it could be more figurative, simply implying bodily harm.

Secondly, (and this is part that truly scared him) the scalpel, placed lightly on his dresser within his locked bedroom while he slept, despite the fact that he checked his room numerous times for intruders, was a clear message – You aren't safe. You are vulnerable. And you can't stop me when I come for you.

Pugsley shook himself as he registered that thought. In his mind he saw Wednesday's maniacal grin and the sadistic glint in her eyes, cackling as she dismembered him in his sleep. He'd already put her onto paralytics. She could immobilize him and take him apart and he'd be unable to stop her. Gritting his teeth against imagined pain, he shook his head to clear his mind.

Pitting his defensive strategies against Wednesday's offensive ones was never a good idea. Even if he had a defensive strategy in mind, Pugsley knew it would only encourage Wednesday to spend longer trying to break it and would inevitably mean a more gruesome punishment when she finally broke through. So, continuing the game was not a good option. But what were his other options? He couldn't go marching downstairs and announce – "OK Wednesday, you win. I'm scared to death." It might get her off his back, but it might incite her to continue – Wednesday hated weaklings. And think of what it'd do to his reputation. His parents would likely disown him and Pubert would look to Wednesday for guidance and advice. No, he couldn't give up his standing and reputation just to get Wednesday off his back. But then, what could he do?

Grumbling, he realized there really wasn't much he could do. Until Wednesday tired of her new game, Pugsley wasn't likely to find away out of it. Resigning himself to the possibility of feeling tired for the rest of his life, Pugsley went down for lunch.


	6. Family Meetings

**It's been just a little while since I've written and this is just a little chapter. Don't worry we'll return to the Weds/Pugsley drama soon enough! There's always plenty of drama in the Addams family! Please Read and Review!**

**Disclaimer: Remember I don't own anything Addams family - I did make up Teeter and Totter though ;) Enjoy!**

Part Six: Family Meetings

Morticia looked up from her knitting at the growl of Pugsley's wolf's head clock. "Ah," she thought, "there's nothing like the homey sounds of a child's clock to make an evening complete." Five growls filled the air, temporarily obscuring the pitter-pattering footsteps of Pubert racing down the stairs.

Leaping nimbly to avoid Bruno's sprawled out form at the base of the staircase, Pubert skidded to a stop directly in front of his mother's chair. Despite his boisterous entrance, Morticia looked down at her son's panting form utterly unperturbed. "Yes, Pubert?" Morticia asked serenely.

Pubert took a deep breath and, with great dignity, straightened out the part in his hair and smoothed his mustache before answering, "Well Mother, I fear I bring some distressing news. Thing is missing."

Fear flashed in Morticia's eyes before she recovered with some semblance of calm, "Really dear, are you sure?"

"I've checked the house, the cemetery, the swamp, the bottomless pit, the tunnel, and the car, and there's no sign of him anywhere," Pubert recounted.

Now the fear was plain on Morticia's face. She rose from her chair, eyes roving widely and muttered to herself, "We must call a family meeting, immediately."

Turning to Pubert, she said, "Darling? Please go and assemble your siblings and Mama. We must meet at once and try to find out what's happened to Thing."

Pubert snapped to attention, and, saluting his mother, ran out of the room to gather Pugsley, Wednesday, and Mama.

Meanwhile, Morticia called, attempting to keep her anxiety out of her voice for fear of upsetting her husband, "Gomez?"

She imagined that he was likely two floors up, playing with his trains or a floor down, relaxing in the playroom. Sighing, she realized she'd have to go searching after him, a feat that was so trying, particularly in her tight, floor-length gown. Suddenly, inspiration struck.

"Gomez, mon cher? Viens à moi, s'il te plais." She crooned softly, caressing each of the French words, a smile curling up her lips. Impossibly, Gomez came rushing down the stairs, cigar in hand, and his conductor's hat sitting cockeyed on his head, shouting, "Tish! That's French!"

He gripped her hand and began his traditional kissing up her arm. As he reached her neck, Morticia held up a hand, and whispered, "Gomez darling."

Gomez heard something strange in Morticia's tone, something different from her usual coy teasing. He pulled up quickly and stared intently into her eyes.

"Querida," he cried, "What is it?" He gripped both her hands, and drew them to his lips. His deep eyes penetrated hers with a searching gaze. She tried to hide the depth of her fear, but knew deep down that Gomez could see through even her best disguises.

Finally she spoke. "Darling, I fear that something terrible may have happened to Thing. He is gone."

When Gomez gasped, she gripped his hands harder and maneuvered him into a chair. Gomez and Thing had been together since Gomez was a boy. Thing was young Gomez's first and best friend.

Gomez's eyes held the empty horror of a pitch-black tunnel or an unmarked tombstone. Morticia tried to console him. "I've called a family meeting so we can figure out when or how or why Thing might have left and what might have happened to him."

Gomez was comforted by Morticia's proactive approach, and quickly jumped out of his melancholy and his chair, and began pacing the room, planning out how to conduct the meeting.

Across town, another family meeting was already underway.

Fester, Dementia, and Totter sat uncomfortably around the dining room table. Totter's eyes shifted between the table and the door, and her tiny body fidgeted constantly in her chair. She knew the purpose of this family meeting. She knew what Ms. Dementia would say, and frankly, she couldn't disagree with her, but she also couldn't bring herself to confront her twin sister either, so she waited in silence.

Finally, Dementia rose, and, with great dignity, cleared her throat and spoke.

"Totter," she said gently, "I'm sorry to say this, but I really think we must discuss the issue of your sister, Teeter."

Totter, too miserable to raise her eyes from the tabletop, only nodded. Tears began to well in her eyes as she remembered the past day and a half her sister had spent with them.

Teeter had arrived from the hospital in the early evening. Her broken arm and leg were securely encased in plaster as they rolled her in on a wheelchair. Her head, which had taken a serious beating in her fall down the Grand Canyon, was wrapped up like a mummy. Totter remembered thinking that the look was quite flattering. But her first impression was soon shattered when the nurse commented, "Go easy on her in the first few days. We think she has suffered some memory loss from the concussion so she may act strangely for a while."

Totter had rushed to her sister's side, only to find that Teeter hardly remembered her at all. She seemed to take it in stride though, and after a few explanations, Teeter seemed appeased. The memory loss, though an interesting quirk in Teeter's already quirky personality, wasn't the reason for the family meeting.

Totter was jolted back to reality as Dementia continued.

"Really, dear," she said, "It's not that we don't want her here, or that we don't _like_ her, not at all. It's just," Dementia paused, struggling for the right words, "she's been acting so _very_ strangely."

Totter nodded. Her sister's behavior was very disturbing for her as well. She'd never seen her sister like that before.

Dementia added, "I just think we need to decide what we should do to help her, well, come to her senses."

Fester seemed to take this problem very seriously, choosing this moment to rise, bring one hand to his chin, and pace the room.

"Hmm," Fester pondered, "Indeed dear, what would bring her to her senses…"

The three of them puzzled, but then Fester cried, excited, "Nitroglycerin?"

Dementia rebuked him, "Fester! She hasn't got indigestion!"

Fester grumbled in response, "Humph. Well it's a thought anyway." He resumed his pacing with a slightly disgruntled set to his shoulders.

Totter felt as though her head were empty save for her fears and sadness over the strange creature that seemed to have control over her sister for the time being. She remembered how they'd been inseparable as children. It wasn't until Momma called the surgeon that they'd even spent one moment apart. She remembered their childhood together, their outings, their games, their favorite foods. Suddenly she had an idea.

"I've got it!" She cried, jumping from her seat. "We just have to remind her who she really is."

Dementia's eyes lit up. "Hmm, yes. I see where you're going. Some homey touches, perhaps?"

Totter began to smile as the two women discussed their plan of attack.


	7. Family Values

Part Seven: Family Values

Wednesday looked around the room at the faces of her family members as her mother relayed the troubling news of Thing's disappearance.

"Weaklings," she thought. Fear and grief lined the faces of her family. It was an altogether hideous look, in Wednesday's estimation. She loathed weakness, especially in members of her own family.

She watched as her father paced back and forth like caged tiger, but without any of the beast's ferocity. Her mother stood in complete opposition: arms wound tightly around her angular body, lips sealed tightly, and looking as if she weren't breathing at all. Lurch stood aloof as usual, the only clue as to his mental distress could be seen in his ringing of his duster, which he held behind his back. Mama was humming to herself, not remotely understanding that Thing was missing and that the rest of the family was in a fine state worrying about him. Pubert mimicked his father, pacing in much smaller, much slower circles behind the sofa. Pugsley actually sat rather impassively.

Wednesday spent another moment staring at Pugsley. She'd kept up a relentless campaign against Pugsley for the past couple of days, haunting his room at night, alternately ignoring him or showering him with "acts of kindness" as her mood struck during the daylight hours. Though he screamed nearly every time he found her mark in his room – a scalpel here, a doll's head there – he never bothered to confront her or their parents about it, cry, breakdown, or show any real signs of weakness. He hadn't even retaliated. Wednesday was confounded by her brother's approach to her torture, but had to admit she was a tiny bit impressed by his impassive stance to it all. So she studied him now, hoping to find out if Pugsley's new stoic demeanor was for real or just a by product of sleep-deprivation or some newly found acting skill.

She noted his eyes did seem a little out of focus, and there was a strange, tiny curve of his lips as if he were enjoying a private joke, that gave him a slightly dream-like appearance. Never one to show her cards early, Wednesday waited to see what this new development might mean.

She was jolted out of her investigation by her father's voice.

"As you all know by now," Gomez began, "we have called this family meeting to discuss the mysterious absences of Thing. Now, I would like you all to think back to the last time you saw Thing and recount any information that you believe may aid in locating him."

The room was silent as everyone thought back to the last time they saw Thing.

Pugsley spoke first. "Yesterday morning, I saw him pacing in the conservatory."

Wednesday followed, "I saw him after lunch yesterday in the playroom, he handed me a mace that I couldn't reach on the top shelf."

Lurch chimed in, "Arghh, urghh urghh arrgggggggggggggggggg."

The family members nodded, contemplating this new evidence. Gomez was unsatisfied and paced with new vigor, "Yesterday? Is that all we have? Mama? When is the last time you saw Thing?"

All eyes shifted to Mama who was rocking in her chair and humming softly to herself.

"Thing?" she croaked, "What thing?"

Morticia answered, "Our Thing, Mama, Thing T. Thing."

"Thing?" Mama squealed. "Name doesn't ring a bell. What does he look like?"

Gomez intervened, "Mama!! You know Thing. He looks like, well, he looks like a disembodied hand!"

"Oh _that_ Thing." Mama replied. "I know him. I helped him into a packing box and put him out for the mailman early this morning."

"_WHAT!?!?_" the entire clan yelled. (Well, Lurch growled, but he meant 'What?').

Morticia found words first, "Mama where did you send him?"

"Huh?" Mama answered, distracted, "Oh, Paris, I think."

"Paris?" Gomez asked, hysteria beginning to hitch his voice. "France? Why on earth would you do that?"

"Well, he certainly couldn't have stuck the mailing label on the box himself once he was inside," Mama answered, matter of fact.

"He asked you to mail him?" Wednesday inserted.

"Well, sure," Mama said. "It's all here in his note."

Gomez's impatience boiled over and he grabbed the note out of Mama's hand with almost feral intensity.

His eyes raked over Thing's elegant script, and he read aloud.

"Dearest family, do not be disturbed by my sudden departure. For many weeks now, I have suspected that something dire had befallen my beloved Lady Fingers. Just yesterday, I received an urgent email that confirmed my fears. I believe that Lady Fingers is being held against her will in Paris. Of course, I know that I could have come to you all with this urgent need, and I know that you would have aided me in this rescue mission, but in this matter, I felt that the speed and stealth with which I can travel outweighed the benefits of the force and skill of your assistance. Please forgive my unexplained departure and understand that sometimes a Thing has to do what a Thing has to do."

By the end of Thing's letter, Gomez had tears in his eyes. "Old noble Thing. Always a fighter."

Gomez's eyes turned speculative; "Perhaps I should call some of my associates in Paris have them investigate Lady Fingers' disappearance, and provide Thing any extra muscle he might need."

Morticia rose and came to her husband's side, "Excellent idea, mon cher."

The lovers smiled at each other and the rest of the family knew the worst of the scare was over.

Across town, the worst was yet to come as Teeter, now free of her wheelchair came barreling into her sister's room, screaming.

"Totter!!! What on earth is _this!!" _Teeter shrieked.

She came barreling in, a dead rat hanging pinched by its tail between her thumb and forefinger.

Totter replied, "Teeter! Don't you remember? You used to sleep with Ratter every night when you were a girl!! He was your safety blanket. I thought a bit of homey touches might help you regain your memory!"

Teeter shrieked louder, a high-pitched, girly sound that sent shivers down Totter's spine. "EW!!" Teeter screamed, "Totter, don't you DARE put any more _nasty things_ in my bed, do you hear me!!!" before storming out of her sister's room and stomping down the stairs.

When Dementia entered Totter's room minutes later, she found the girl curled up on her bed, crying her eyes out and clutching Ratter to her chest.

She sat next to the whimpering girl, and pushed her soaked hair out of her eyes.

"Still no luck with the memory?" Dementia asked gently.

Totter wailed louder.

"Don't worry, Totter," Dementia said, "It just takes time. You'll get her back. We must just keep trying."

Totter nodded through her tears.

Suddenly, Dementia's eyes brightened. "I have an idea," she crooned slyly. And she leaned in and whispered her new idea into Totter's ear. Her swollen eyes widened, and a tiny smile curled her lips.

"That just might work," she said.


	8. Escalation

**Ok, so I couldn't wait. Careful - Remember it's rated M so be ready for some mature themes. I don't own anything, the Addams Family is a product of Charles Addams.**

**Enjoy!  
**

Part Eight: Escalation

Wednesday felt that escalation was the only way to really know for sure if her brother was immune to her torture or if he was only faking nonchalance. She'd begun to notice that each night he seemed less and less scared of her intrusions into his sleep, and during the day, he barely even flinched at the sight of her. She wondered if perhaps he'd gotten used to the routine and was thus no longer frightened by it. She decided to find out.

Instead of her traditional nighttime torture – that is, breaking into his room, startling him, disappearing so he tosses and turns all night, and leaving something threatening behind for him to find when he wakes ­­– she decided to go with something a bit more extreme.

So she was rather surprised that when she snuck into Pugsley's room through the rafters, in her traditional way, that she found him, not tossing and turning as per usual, but wrapped tightly under his covers and snoring like a baby. She stared at him, unable to understand how he could sleep so soundly when he should be dreading her revenge. Though the light was low, she swore she could detect a tiny smile on his lips.

"Great," she thought. "He's enjoying this. He's gone and turned a perfectly rotten torture into a pleasurable experience. I hate it when he does that." So it was with a heavy heart that she set up her last mark in Pugsley's room, her doll Marie Antoinette, headless, of course, hanging from a noose over his head, hoping at least she might get a little squeal out of him in the morning when he realized she'd broken in yet again. Then again, she realized that was simply wishful thinking.

She moved slowly as she retreated back to her room. She couldn't decide if she'd gotten Pugsley back for his torture on her. She was pretty sure she'd scared him silly at least a few times before he began to enjoy it, so she thought maybe that made them even. A huge yawn filled her chest, and she realized that she was glad at least that she'd be able to get some good sleep now that she didn't have to be up every night scaring Pugsley to death. She pushed open the door to her room and gasped.

There, seated on her bed, surrounded by a pile of all of the things Wednesday had left in Pugsley's room over the past several days, was Marie Antoinette, holding her head in her lap and staring at Wednesday with unseeing eyes that seemed to mirror the horror in Wednesday's eyes. To top it all off, a tiny noose hung from the ceiling above Wednesday bed, a post-it note taped to the bottom. Wednesday grabbed the note, and read, despite her shaking hand, "I believe these belong to you. Sweet Dreams, sister."

She cupped her hand to her mouth, just in case the scream that she felt building in her chest might escape, and, not believing that Pugsley could have gotten into her room faster than she – Hadn't she _just_ seen him snoring away in bed? – she raced down the hall to double check that he was asleep.

She peered through a tiny crack in Pugsley's door and saw that, indeed, he was still asleep, snoring away. Shivers racked Wednesday's body and she shook back, hoping to dislodge the creepy crawly feeling that was taking over. Without a backward glance, she rushed back into her room and closed and locked the door.

In Pugsley's room, Pugsley managed to keep from chuckling until he heard Wednesday's door close and lock. Then he let out a tiny chuckle before he sighed, "I've still got it" and fell fast asleep.

Elsewhere in the Addams' mansion, someone else was wondering if he still had it. It'd been a long time since Morticia and Gomez had played with this particular apparatus and Gomez was feeling slightly anxious about whether or not he still had it in him to play the game.

Not as young as he once was, Gomez eyed the Catherine Wheel with both a devastating wave of desire and a slightly nauseating wave of, well, nausea. Sensing his distress, Morticia appeared over his shoulder, and, wrapping her arms around his waist, she whispered into his ear, "Nervous, darling?" She proceeded to remove his coat and shirt.

"Nervous?" Gomez raised his eyebrows, "Never. Gomez Addams fears nothing," he added in a voice sounding strongly like a matador. He turned so that he held his wife's eyes, "I adore the Catherine Wheel, my darling, and no one is better with hot pokers than you, Querida," he paused, "but…"

"But?" Morticia tilted her head questioningly.

"I loathe the distance." His voice began passionate now. "My hands chained at my sides, and your body, kept far from me by the length of the branding iron. The distance is too much to bear."

Morticia felt a blush rising up her neck, and, to hide her own inflamed passions, she nodded and turned away from her husband. Fearing he had upset her, Gomez cried out, "Querida? Have I said something wrong?"

She neither answered, nor turned to face him, but waited, several paces away from him with her back to him.

He rushed to her side, and placed his hands around her waist, "Cara mia? What's wrong?" He crooned into her hair.

He heard the clicking of shackles and felt their iron weight against his wrists. Before he could utter a sound, Morticia had turned around and was wearing a sly, wicked grin on her pale face.

She took a step back and revealed to Gomez that each of his hands were shackled and chains to hooks along the floor, giving him just each slack to remain standing, but not each to walk more than a pace in any direction. She took another step back, out of his reach.

"Is this better, mon cher?" She asked, humor dancing in her dark eyes. She crossed her arms and she watched the concern on her husband's face get replaced first by surprise, then admiration for her stealth, and then the lusty ardor that graced his features every time he was restrained.

She supposed that it was utterly unfair of her to torture her husband with the weakness he'd only just revealed to her, but she felt it her responsibility to give him both the pleasure _and_ the pain that he so loved.

Gomez tried not to gawk at the sheer beauty of his wife, the way she teased him with her flirtatious smile, her fiery eyes, the way she tempted him with her tight dress and that low cut neck line, and the way she stood, so impassive despite the raging desire she created in him. He knew instinctively that she stood outside of his reach, and yet, he couldn't keep himself from taking that step toward her. He knew she was waiting for him to lose control, taking her own pleasure from his animalistic tendencies when chained. The chains clanged, halting him mid-step, as he knew they would, and he saw it – that tiny smile in Morticia's eyes, revealing her pleasure. The smile inflamed him further and he found himself rattling the chains in an attempt to close the distance between him and the object of his desire.

She found his intensity endearing, and suddenly found that she was fighting her own battle of will, trying to will her legs to keep her in place, and not let her body throw itself into Gomez's thrashing embrace. When she felt she couldn't keep still any longer, she decided to walk. Keeping her eyes on Gomez, she walked in a slow circle, being careful to stay outside of his reach.

He settled down then. Chest still heaving from brutal efforts to remove the chains from the floor and from the raging passion inside him, Gomez struggled to regain some semblance of calm and sanity. Only his eyes revealed the fury of the beast within him as they watched Morticia circle in the same way that a cornered animal sizes up its predator. Morticia looked back at Gomez only intermittently. Once, she stopped and turned her back on him completely.

Rage and desperation took over and he threw himself at her immobile form. She didn't even flinch with the crashing chains caught and Gomez howled a feral snarl.

She chuckled. And when she turned back around, she held in her hands a bullwhip.

Gomez's eyes widened in surprise, and then nearly rolled back in his head in anticipation of the pain and pleasure that awaited him.

"Querida, the bullwhip?" he tried to sound nonchalant.

"I thought it appropriate," she replied, detached. "You seem beyond animalistic tonight." She smiled, and added, "And, you do know how I love to play _Lion Tamer_."

Before he could respond, she let the whip fly, and landed a blow squarely on Gomez's chest. The welt blossomed like a red sash across Gomez's already glistening skin. The pain of it knocked him to his knees and he howled between gritted teeth. He bowed his head to the floor, squinting his eyes against the pain as he tried to regain control.

When he lifted his head, he could see, despite Morticia's best efforts, the effect that his pain had on her. Her arms, wrapped around her chest, shook slightly as her staggered breathing lifted her chest. Her fingers, wrapped around the handle of the bullwhip were white from clutching too tightly. These tiny details, an untrained observer would never catch, but they stood out to Gomez. He smiled and rose.

She saw his smile and was not amused.

She let the whip fly again, this time slicing through his trouser leg and drawing blood along the inside of his right thigh. He clutched the leg, this time unable to squelch the cry that escaped his lips as he fell to his knees yet again. The pain from the wound ran like shivers up and down his body and he felt as though the tingling pleasure, now forcing his body into convulsions, might push him over the edge. The pleasure was intoxicating and it called to him, but he knew it was nothing compared to the feel of Morticia's body and the love they made together. He gritted his teeth against the mounting pleasure, and, with an extreme force of will, raised his eyes to his wife's once more.

Her eyes were hungry, greedy, but she refused to give into her own pleasure before she granted him his. She raised the whip for a final strike, but this time he was ready for her. She let the whip fly and Gomez reached out a shackled hand with superhuman speed, forcing the whip to encircle the chain and become tangled. Before Morticia could react to Gomez's sudden movement, she found herself being pulled by the whip in Gomez's waiting arms.

The last thing she heard before she was lost in a sea of sensations – the cold of the stone floor on her back and of the chains across her skin, the heat of Gomez's body, the smooth feel of Gomez's hands on her face and body, the sharpness of his teeth and nails digging into her skin, and the mounting ecstasy of untamed passion – was Gomez's throaty growl, "Not without you."


	9. Memories

**Just a little fluff of a chapter! Enjoy!**

**Part Nine: Memories**

Fester had been thinking about Gomez ever since Dementia had revealed her plan to recover Teeter's memory. He was missing his extended family so much that the ache of homesickness was almost unbearable. He endured just a tiny bit longer, to savor the feeling, before giving in and driving over for a visit.

He kissed his wife goodbye and wished her good luck before embarking on the 15-minute drive over to the Addams' mansion.

Meanwhile, inside the mansion, Fester's forthcoming visit was being foretold by Mama as she watched her Lizard Tongue Soup bubble in the caldron over the fire. She watched as the bits of tongue and the noodles swirled around in the boiling broth and slowed to form a picture of Fester standing on the porch in front of the mansion. Unperturbed, Mama muttered, mostly to herself but within earshot of Gomez, "Ah, Fester is coming."

Gomez looked up from his newspaper to gaze confusedly over at Mama. "What was that you said, Mama?" he asked.

"Hmm?" she answered, distracted by her soup. "Oh, yes," she continued, "Fester is coming. Well, actually –"

A knock at the front door interrupted her thought. Gomez jumped up in excitement and raced out of the kitchen to answer it.

Alone now, Mama finished her thought, "he's already here."

In the living room, Morticia nearly jumped when her knitting was interrupted by Gomez's dart to the front door. Of course, it would take much more to make Morticia _actually_ jump, but she was startled nonetheless. She took care to hide that fact and chided Gomez in her most serene voice.

"Is there a fire, dear?" she called to him, halting his race.

"Ah, Querida, if _only!_" Gomez called back, laughing. "In fact, my dear, it is not something that I am running from, but something I am running to. Mama has informed me that Fester is at the door!"

Morticia's eyes lit up, "Fester? Truly? Then, by all means, darling, let him in."

"At your command," Gomez replied, taking a deep bow before gazing meaningfully into Morticia's eyes. She couldn't decide whether to chuckle or melt or vault from her chair and wrap Gomez in her arms, so she simply raised an eyebrow and stifled a smile.

He seemed to require no more and left the room to invite Fester in. When the two men returned, they were laughing heartily at a joke Morticia had not heard.

Annoyance at being left out started to flare up in her, but before she let it show, she called, "What is so funny, boys?" in her most nonchalant voice.

Gomez was not fooled and hastened to let her in on the joke.

"Darling, forgive us, Fester here was just telling me about the trouble he and Dementia are having with the sister of their housekeeper – you remember Totter dear?" he paused as she nodded. He continued, "Well, she's having an issue with amnesia - the sister, not the housekeeper," he clarified, "and –"

Before he could continue, Fester cut in, "What Gomez is _trying_ to say is, Morticia, could I borrow one of your juggling clubs? I can't seem to find my set at home anywhere."

Morticia was momentarily confused, but then had to stifle a laugh as she remembered Gomez's bought of amnesia and the many, many blows to the head with a juggling club that had left him with a charming set of bumps before ultimately curing him. It had been rather distressing at the time, but now she could look back on the experience with some degree of detachment and admit to herself it was rather funny.

Before she set off to fetch the club she asked, "Fester, are you sure this is such a good idea? It's hardly likely that this girl's head is as hard as Gomez's. A juggling club might be too much for her."

Fester pondered Morticia's observation before answering, "You know, you're right, Morticia – Teeter is much smaller than Gomez. You don't happen to still have that truncheon that Great-Great Uncle Lester Frump stole from that police officer on his vacation in England, do you?"

"You mean the one with the officer's blood all over it?" Morticia inquired.

"Yea! That's the one!" Fester exclaimed. "That's the perfect size for Teeter, not to mention it's much prettier."

Morticia smiled and headed down to the playroom to fetch Fester's toy.

Meanwhile, back across town, Dementia and Totter were preparing to spring their own trap. Totter had convinced Teeter that what she really needed was a little outing in town. Teeter had squealed with delight and talked about "taking in some sun" (to which both Dementia and Totter shuddered) and "perhaps getting a nice facial" (to which they both gagged). Faking smiles, they waved the girl out, put her in her cab, and began to plan in her absence.

Dementia spoke first, "OK, so now's she gone, and she should be back in an hour or two. That leaves us plenty of time to gather materials. Hopefully Fester will be back with that club of Morticia and Gomez's soon. Then, when Teeter comes back through the door, we'll be waiting here and 'Bang!' one wallop on the head should have her good as new!" Dementia smiled eagerly at Totter, but she looked concerned.

"Miss Dementia," she began timidly, "Not to doubt you or anything, but are you _sure_ this will bring Teeter back to normal?"

Dementia was supremely confident, "Of course dear! Fester _assured_ me that it worked perfectly when Gomez lost his memory! Now, don't you worry, it'll be just fine!"

Somewhat cheered, Totter nodded vigorously.

Dementia checked her watch and then groaned, "Oh Fester! Where is he? He should be back by now. If he doesn't hurry, Teeter will beat him home!"

They gave Fester a few more minutes, but then anxiety of missing their chance to cure Teeter became overwhelming and they began combing the house for replacement clubs, something to use just in case Fester didn't get back in time.

And so it passed that just as they put their hands on a fire-poker and a table leg, respectively, they heard the sound of car tires crunching up the driveway. With one panicked look at each other, the two women raced back to the front door and took their places on either side, clubs raised. The knob began to turn and Dementia met Totter's eyes, coordinating their strike.

She mouthed, "One, two, _Three!_" and the two women brought down their weapons on the round, white, bald head of Fester.

"Oh no!" Dementia shrieked, grasping Fester and dropping her now bent fire-poker on the floor. "Are you OK, dear?" she gasped.

Fester turned, looking confused, and said, "Well, yes of course dear, why wouldn't I be?"

Dementia burst out laughing and then showed Fester the bent fire-poker and the splintered remains of Totter's table leg. Fester smirked and then rubbed his head, "I thought I felt something as I walked in."

A few hours later, Totter stood in the doorway to her sister's room, watching Teeter lay in her bed, clutching Ratter to her chest. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks. Dementia laid a hand on the girl's shoulder, "What's wrong, Totter?"

Totter turned her big watery eyes on Dementia, "Well, I'm so happy that my sister is cured, but now I'm sad because she'll be wanting to go home, and I'll miss her terribly."

Dementia thought for a moment before answering. "Well, Totter," she said slowly, "It's always hard to leave the ones we love, but we always have the memories," then she added, "then again, if that doesn't work, there's always the juggling club!"

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